


You were raised by wolves and voices (every night I hear them howling)

by dearericbittle (dutchmoxie)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bathing/Washing, Derek Hale Saves Stiles Stilinski, Inspired by The Witcher, M/M, Massage, Stiles Stilinski Saves Derek Hale, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dutchmoxie/pseuds/dearericbittle
Summary: A sheltered boy with a reputation for telling tall tales, desperate to see the world and find out what monsters are real. A lone Wolf, ostracized from society as he takes contracts to kill the things that go bump in the night. A Mad Wolf, a Dark Druid, and destiny.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 34
Kudos: 240





	You were raised by wolves and voices (every night I hear them howling)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luvs_sterek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvs_sterek/gifts).



> Working title: Toss a coin to your Alpha
> 
> For Sterek bingo: Medieval, Madness (Peter), Self-Defense
> 
> Should I have rewatched the show again? Probably. Instead I just watched Joey Batey-related video's (immediately, I love him), and that explains like 50% of my fic titles this year. 
> 
> For B, who's been advocating for this fic since February (when I initially promised to write it).

The wolf has a reputation. There are so few of his kind left these days - and for good reason. Wolves are dangerous creatures from tales and legends, beastly beings who would sooner rip a man apart than pay him any kind of courtesy. 

Mieczyslaw Stilinski has never seen a wolf in the flesh, not until now. Even though he grew up in the town of Beacon Hills, a place known for magic and monsters only, the boy had never encountered either. His father, the now alderman of the town, had cast out both monster and monster hunter alike and made the town live up to its name again. It now stood as a beacon of hope in the wild Californias. 

And as long as things stayed that way, Janusz Stilinski would keep his position. However, now there is a wolf in the woods surrounding the town. Wolves mean trouble. 

There is nothing Mieczyslaw Stilinski loves more than he loves trouble. Because trouble means there is another mystery to solve, and that soon there will be another story to tell to the wide-eyed people of Beacon Hills. He is no bard - his singing voice scares even the crows - but he knows how to tell a story, how to keep the people wanting more. 

Surely a wolf will have tales aplenty. 

Clearly it is his destiny to meet with the wolf on behalf of the town. And if the meeting is a bit more clandestine than it is official, well, that is just his prerogative as the son of the alderman. Or just as the local teller of tales - as Stiles. 

He likes that name a whole lot better than he does Mieczyslaw. 

So he makes his way to the edge of town, and he slips past the guards his father has assigned to keep watch over their people. This is not the first time he has attempted to escape, and it is not the first time that he has made it into the woods. The only thing that has changed is that this time there is something to escape to. There is someone waiting for him. 

Not that the wolf knows that. He will shortly. 

The cover of night makes it easier for him to stumble into the woods. Now all that is left is to find the wolf - the mysterious creature he’s been dying to meet. He has only heard the tales of the carnage that follows in his trail, heard tales of the monsters that had been slain by one brave man with the strength of many. Even though he is reviled by the humans, the wolf still saves them for a modest fee. Enough to keep him going. 

Stiles wonders if the wolf has a greater quest he’s working towards. All heroes do, don’t they? And the wolf is a hero of some kind, even though most people might disagree. 

It is hard to move through a dark forest without a single light other than the moon. Stiles is clumsy by nature, and he has escaped being trained to fight. When his father realized he was never going to join the guards, he wanted Stiles to study instead. There are no universities in Beacon Hills, and the alderman will not let him leave. 

So Stiles remains, impatient and bored. 

Maybe the wolf will help. Maybe the wolf will kidnap him and Stiles will be forced to go along with him and finally see the world beyond Beacon Hills. 

Maybe he will trip and fall on some rocks and die here. 

“Turn back, foolish child,” a voice sounds when Stiles makes it deeper into the woods. 

At the sound of it, he almost falls. He rights himself and heads in the direction of the voice, even though he can hardly see anything this deep inside the woods. Very little moonlight makes its way between the trees, and Stiles has found himself stumbling like a blind man, hands held aloft in front of him to keep him from walking into a tree. 

No one can see him, so no one can mock him. 

“I am no child,” Stiles defends himself from the stranger’s scorn. 

He wonders what has betrayed him. Was it the stumbling, breaking branches as he stepped on them without a care? Was it a glint of the finely woven thread of his tunic catching the moon’s rays? Or was it the scent of him, worsened by the walking and climbing? The first option would make the stranger a hunter, but the others might mean that Stiles has found his target. 

Stiles, perhaps, has found what he has been searching for. The wolf. 

“Eighteen summers?” The stranger mocks. “Nineteen, perhaps? You are a child, and you would do best to turn around and go back to your little bed. It is dangerous to be out at night.” 

Yes, that is the very thing that people keep saying. Stiles, however, has never actually seen danger, and he desperately wishes to see it. He wants to know what the people in his many tales felt when they were faced with a danger they had no chance of triumphing over. Stiles wants to have experiences that go beyond just telling of tales. Most of all, he wants the chance to tell real stories, of things that actually happened and were witnessed by Stiles himself. He wants to be the best teller of tales, to be renowned throughout the lands. 

None of this is possible within the borders of Beacon Hills. 

“A wolf roams these woods,” Stiles continues the warning. “I am aware.” 

Mieczyslaw Stilinski does not scare easily, and he certainly will not allow himself to let his fear keep him from exploration. This is an unparalleled opportunity, the moment in which he finally meets someone who is not like any other human he has met. 

“There is more out there than a mere wolf,” the stranger sounds like he is closer now. 

Stiles wants him to get close enough for him to see. All that he has seen so far have been shadows, occasionally moving in the wind. He has not yet seen a humanoid figure, has not seen a living thing in this woods other than himself. He has grown impatient, and it has made him even more clumsy. He trips over a tree root and falls, barely keeping himself from hitting the ground with an ungraceful thump. He pants into the cold night air. 

“What else is out there?”

If Stiles is one thing, it is curious. His curiosity is unbridled, and he has grown weary of people discouraging him. It makes him all the more determined to explore, to comb through the books his father has sent to him in the hopes of finding more tales to tell, more monsters to use to make the children wide-eyed and petrified. Those are Stiles’ hopes for these volumes. His father’s hopes are quite different. The alderman hopes that his son will finally see the creatures for what they are, and that is dangerous. He wants his son to see them as tales of caution. 

That is not what he has achieved. 

“The monster the wolf has been sent to dispose of,” that is a different voice. 

Stiles’ heart thumps loudly in his chest, because he has just found his first monster. If one voice is that of the wolf, the other must be of a monster. No other human would dare come out here and make their presence known. Not when there were still monsters to be slain. 

“Igni,” the first voice speaks again. 

A gush of flames appears out of thin air, and Stiles is enthralled. He is tempted to get closer to see this battle more clearly, but his current position gives him the advantage of being closer to being hidden. Stiles is lying on muddy ground, yards away from where the first stranger has just released the flames. The second stranger has somehow disappeared. 

That is the first spell that Stiles has ever witnessed - there is no magic in Beacon Hills. The magic that wolves hold is very limited beyond their ability to shift into their animal form. Some tales say that wolves have multiple forms, but that has always seemed excessive to Stiles. 

The books have been very clear about the five spells, or runic signs, that some wolves can perform. Stiles does not know a lot of details about them, even though he has been studying their existence for as long as he can remember. The authors of his books have never witnessed a spell, unlike Stiles. He has seen the flame. 

“How foolish,” the second voice is suddenly right in his ear. “Your wolf friend gave you time to run away. Yet you stayed.” 

Stiles’ breath gets caught in his throat, because this a real-life monster, even though he cannot see it in the midst of the dark night. Perhaps it is best that he cannot see the gruesome appearance of this monster at the moment. Perhaps it is a sight best saved for the bright light of dawn, when monsters seem almost like fantasy creatures from a forgotten nightmare. Like the voices that took his mother away when Stiles was still young. 

“Uncle,” the wolf has returned for him. “Unhand the boy. He has done you no harm.” 

Certainly he has misheard that, at least the name. Perhaps the creature’s name is Oonkul, or something similar to it. It is not a creature that Stiles has ever read about, but he is not foolish enough to think that all creatures can be found in his books. Books may speak of the kanima, and the kitsune, and even of the kikimora and the bloedzuiger, but even books have their limits. 

Those limits are the very reason that Stiles is out here on the night of the full moon. 

“He is the alderman’s son, nephew,” the evil creature growls. 

The creature sounds more like a wolf than the wolf does. It growls and grunts and then lifts Stiles as if he hardly weighs anything at all. Stiles closes his eyes and then opens again, because even if he is to die, he wants to remember this. 

When his eyes have finally caught sight of the creature, they widen. This is no monster, not one he has ever seen or heard the likes of. This is a man with cold blue eyes, with claws on elegant hands and teeth long enough to cleave Stiles’ throat handily. This is a man and a wolf in one, a beastly creature who is not quite human. A creature made of evil, of hatred and of darkness and pain. A creature too far gone to save. 

“Let him go, uncle,” the wolf implores once more. 

Uncle’s eyes have gone bright red, the color of blood. Stiles can feel his heart pounding in his throat as those sharp teeth get closer and closer to his neck. The stories told him that vampires were the kind of monster to get fixated on the neck. The books did not mention anything similar about wolves, but since they do not need blood to feed this seems like a regular kind of bloodlust. 

It is weird to be so analytical still when he is at risk of dying. As a weaponless human, there is very little he can do against teeth and claw. He is nearly defenseless. 

“If you want him for yourself, come and claim him,” the evil wolf threatens. 

He is just playing with Stiles, just using him as entertainment so that he can get the prize he truly wants, which is his nephew. Stiles can tell that much, even though the wolves are not particularly communicative by nature. Or so he has been told. 

“It is me you want,” the good wolf sounds nearer now. “Let him go, Peter.” 

Stiles tries to figure out the kinder wolf’s location, but not even the full moon lends him enough light to see through the thick woods. He understands that this is probably a purposeful move from the good wolf, but if he is to die, he would like to look upon his savior’s face before he departs this earth. He would like to tell him that Stiles’ father would pay handsomely for the head of his son’s killer. Stiles does not want to see his wolf punished for his uncle’s crimes. 

“Your pleas are getting rather repetitive, my dear nephew,” the evil wolf named Peter sounds as if he is at an inn, discussing the weather over a pint of ale.

This man truly does not care about human lives. It is chilling, looking into his eyes and seeing no emotions, no compassion whatsoever. Sure, Stiles knew that wolves supposedly did not feel human emotions, but it was a different matter to see that in the flesh. To feel the mad wolf’s hot breath at his neck, ready to bite down at a moment’s notice. 

“Derek?” The Mad Wolf does not hear his foe. 

The Mad Wolf would make a nice name for a tale. This wolf has been driven mad by something that Stiles cannot comprehend yet. He wishes to remain alive long enough to figure it out, but if his would-be rescuer has disappeared, he is doomed to fall. 

What can he do to save himself?

He lets himself go slack in the wolf’s grip, hoping that will startle him, or force him to struggle with Stiles’ dead weight. It gives him very little time to act, but the second the wolf has to adjust his grip, Stiles flails and attempts to tear himself from the Mad Wolf’s grip. 

It does not work. Not in the way he intends, because while the Mad Wolf does not let him go free, he is distracted for a very brief period of time. It is a distraction that the good wolf uses to his advantage, leaping for his uncle’s throat. Stiles watches wide-eyed as they struggle and the Mad Wolf is forced to let go of him after all.

The forest floor is hard underneath his soft belly, and the breath is briefly taken from his lungs. He recovers quickly enough and starts to crawl away from the Battle of the Wolves, hoping they will be concerned with each other only. He can observe them from a safe distance until dawn comes and he can find his way back home again. At the moment, he is rather hopelessly lost in the woods. He could never make it home without assistance. 

When he hears a choked off howl, Stiles turns back, only to see the kind wolf tearing into his uncle’s throat. There is a spray of blood, and Stiles watches as the red eyes dim and then turn to their regular blue color. They still hold no emotions, but now they are completely lifeless. 

Stiles can see the life fading from him, a sight that should have been tragic, but instead only makes Stiles feel victorious and darkly pleased. A monster like that should not have been allowed to live. He would have killed Stiles, and he would not have stopped at that. 

The kind wolf saved them all. 

“Thank you,” Stiles whispers, knowing the wolf will hear him. 

The books are right about that part, at least. The senses of a wolf are much more carefully honed than a human’s. They have powers beyond belief, but instead of using them for evil, a wolf can choose to turn to the light. Not all wolves are monsters. 

“Leave, child,” the kind wolf growls at him. 

His eyes glow red in the dark night and Stiles stands up and runs, blindly, in a direction he is hoping will lead him back to town, to Beacon Hills. 

Fear curls up his spine. What if red eyes are a sign of madness in wolves? The wolf has his scent now, and if he wishes to harm Stiles, there is no way that he can defend himself. 

He stops, barely having cleared a hundred yards. This is not a man he needs to be afraid of. 

“Where are you going?” Stiles asks. “Can I come with you? Please. I cannot spend my whole life in this place, locked behind my father’s walls. There is more to see out there. I could keep you company. I could tell stories for coin. I could tell true tales, not the lies that most people hear about wolves. I could be a friend to you.” 

There is no way that he can leave this man alone, not after he has been forced to end the life of a family member. Perhaps they were not close friends now, but they probably had been once upon a time, and the wolf named Derek had been forced to do a violent thing. The wolf probably would not see it as being forced - he seemed the martyr type. 

“No,” the wolf is progressively less and less verbose. 

Stiles pretends his spine is made of steel and turns back in the direction of the voice. This is not something he should give the man a choice about. All Stiles has to do is sneak back into town to get his things, and perhaps make sure that the wolf collects a reward for killing a monster that had set out to destroy the good people of Beacon Hills. It is quite a story, and when he tells it, people will change their minds about the kind heart of this heroic wolf. 

“You are a sour wolf,” Stiles stumbles and trips, and still continues on his path. “I can relieve you of your dark mood. Please, I would not wish to see you alone on a night like this. I will leave this town behind regardless of what you tell me. Is it not wiser to travel together?” 

The wolf says nothing, and Stiles believes his comment on the wolf’s sour nature to be impossibly correct. He certainly has every reason to be dour, but that should not keep him from accepting a perfectly sincere and kind offer from a stranger. It seems that this wolf does not like the kindness of strangers. He does not trust it. 

“Can wolves truly tell when I lie?” Stiles wonders out loud. “If so, you can hear me when I promise that I will not harm you. I mean you no harm. I merely mean to see the world, to tell my tales across the land. I wish to write books as well, ensuring that people have correct information about every creature they come across. People are so misinformed, you see, and most books I have read have very little information about wolves. So far, you have already proven these books to be incorrect on several fronts. I need to know, Sour Wolf. Please.” 

For the longest time, there was no response at all. Stiles almost worried that the wolf had already departed without him. It would make him sad, but he would persevere regardless, just as he had explained to his savior. There is nothing for him in the town of Beacon Hills that he did not already know. He wants to explore, to go out into the unknown. 

Accompanying the wolf would benefit him in many ways, and he tries to hold out hope that the man will change his mind. He tries to stay calm as he waits. 

“This way,” the man finally speaks from right behind Stiles. 

Stiles startles and jumps. His arms flail in his customary manner, and he wonders if that might be a grin he sees on the wolf’s face. If so, he will happily play up his harmless human ways to amuse the man. It is the very least he can do for him. 

He follows him silently, still waiting to find out what the wolf wants with him. Sure, he is hoping that the man will let Stiles accompany him, but this could still be a ruse to lead Stiles back to town, to supposed safety. To boredom, and being locked into his house when his father finds out that he has managed to escape the town borders yet again. 

They arrive at a clearing that Stiles has never seen before, where a beautiful black steed is waiting for them. The wolf heads straight for it, stroking it softly as it nudges him gently. 

“He is beautiful,” Stiles tells the wolf sincerely. 

The horse’s coat is dark and shiny, gleaming in the moonlight’s pale glow. Its temperament is curiously mild - Stiles has read in his books that wolves do not like animals, and that this is a mutual thing. Supposedly, most horses would sooner run from a wolf or lash out at him than let a wolf ride on their back. It seems that his wolf is an exception here yet again. 

Stiles wishes to find out everything about him. For the sake of his stories, naturally. 

“Can I touch him?” Stiles knows better than to reach without asking. 

“He will not let you,” Derek the wolf does not look at Stiles as he speaks. 

All of his attention is on his noble steed, making sure that the horse is properly groomed and ready to be ridden. Stiles flushes at the idea of sharing the saddle with his wolf - he is not a great rider, and he is not accustomed to being so close to any man, let alone a stranger. 

Yet he is curious to find out what it will be like, feeling this strength pressed against him. 

There is no fear, just excitement.

“Shall we?” Stiles motions towards the horse, eager to get started. 

That earns him a look from Sour Wolf - of course Stiles is aware that the man’s name is Derek, but he has not been given permission to use his family name, and the name lacks poetry. It requires a title, something that would improve Derek’s status in the human world he is forced to walk around in. Derek of… Beaconia? Too fanciful. Perhaps Derek has a place he hails from that he wishes to use as his title. Stiles hopes he will remember to ask. 

Stiles is still stuck mid-motion towards the horse, waiting for the wolf’s permission. 

“You’ll walk,” the Sour Wolf is certainly smiling now. 

“Why, I,” Stiles blusters, angry but unwilling to go up against the wolf like this. 

He sighs and resigns himself to his fate. He will grow and learn to deal with aching feet and sores if necessary if that means he gets to accompany The Red Wolf. 

Yes, that is a title that he can work with. 

Musing on how to tell the tale of the Red Wolf triumphing over his uncle the Mad Wolf, Stiles starts to walk. By the time they get to the next town, he will have a tale for the ages. 

* * *

A few months later he is not nearly so inclined to acquiescence. Derek is alternatively sulky, growly or outright pained. Stiles does not know how to deal with either of these moods other than to loudly tell tales of stories he has overheard in Beacon Hills. 

“You tell lies,” Derek interrupts him yet again as they enter the borders of the Californias. 

“Pardon me?” Stiles almost does not wish to phrase that as a question. 

He knows exactly what he has heard and knows that Derek means to insult his craft. 

“You know, Sour Wolf,” he tries to use the moniker only at times like this one, “perhaps it is best that you do not anger your best poet, your sole teller of tales, right before we stride into a town with such a troubled history with wolfkind.” 

They have traveled South, further into the part of the Californias that has warmth year-round, and also further into the part of these lands that is outright suspicious of any non-human. Derek stands to be in actual danger if these people are not assured that he does not mean them any harm. Perhaps there might be a thing that he can do for these people to ease their minds? 

He owes his life to this wolf, and he would happily tell everyone the tale of the Red Wolf’s Rescue - alliteration is a wonderful thing, and most people are very susceptible to it. Especially when he widens his eyes, because apparently his eyes are his most innocent feature. 

Stiles does not see himself as innocent at all. Perhaps in some things he might be, because he has only been away from home for a few months - but he has made up for a whole lot of deficiencies in that time. He is a man of the world now, and he has seen things that most humans never get to see. Most humans would not wish to see this, but Stiles has never quite been like most people. Most people would not voluntarily follow the Red Wolf. 

Derek’s eyes still glow red when he battles monsters, and Stiles still has not received a satisfactory explanation for how eye color works for wolves. He refuses to believe that this is merely a reaction to being mid-battle. It has to be more than that. 

Still the books continue to fail him. 

“Get out, wolf,” an old woman shouts at Derek. 

Perhaps if he writes better books, people will not fail Derek like this. 

“Have you no idea about who is in your midst?” Stiles gasps dramatically and motions in Derek’s direction. “This is the Red Wolf, the savior of the Californias. He has single-handedly slain the Mad Wolf of Beacon Hills, slaughtered the ruthless kikimora making its way through the Beacon Valley. He saved my life a dozen times over and now he has come to save you all.” 

The old woman does not appear to be all that interested, but there are some younger men and women who appear to be straining to hear more of his story. Of course, Stiles must oblige. 

“You can find us at the Inn,” Stiles continues, removing his head and bowing. “My Lord the Red Wolf will take on any villain for coin, and I, the famous Stiles, will tell you every tale of the Red Wolf for a copper a tale. A true bargain!” 

Apparently people agree, because a mere two hours later Stiles is flush with coppers, enough to purchase a bath for the room. Derek has not bathed outside of a cold creek in weeks, and Stiles is very aware that he must not smell any better. They have not been able to afford any real luxuries so far, but now that Stiles’ tales are spreading, people are more willing to pay. 

“Hmm,” Derek grunts as he sits himself in the bath. 

Stiles was not allowed to go first, and he tries not to feel bitter. Derek has the more sensitive nose, so clearly he is to be the first. The thing Stiles worries about is the frustrated sounds Derek makes as he tries to get comfortable in the big wooden tub. It has not been very long since their last encounter with a monster the likes of which Stiles had never seen before, not until that very moment. Derek was gravely injured in the battle, but he has proven to heal quickly from wounds that might kill a human. 

Judging by the sounds he now makes, something did not heal properly. 

“You must be aching,” Stiles does not wait for a response. “Let me help. I have some fine oils and dexterous hands. You would not have to leave the bath.” 

Stiles can rub down his muscles, unwinding knots and leaving Derek comfortable enough to perhaps answer some of Stiles’ questions. If he ever lets his guard down. 

“Hmm,” the maddening wolf says. 

That is neither a yes, nor a no, and Stiles decides that seeking permission is not necessary if Derek does not deny him outright. He knows how capable Derek is of telling him when he dislikes a tale, or a string of words, or the sound of Stiles’ breathing in a dark inn room. If there is something Stiles is spoiling for the wolf, he will find out instantly. 

“You will not regret it,” Stiles has every intention of keeping the promise. 

“Hmm,” Derek growls. 

Sometimes Stiles wonders if Derek can actually speak in full sentences. Until he remembers that night in the woods, years ago, when Derek addressed him as if he were an insolent child, speaking to him more in one conversation than he has done since. 

Has Derek forgotten how to speak, or does he simply not wish to do so anymore? Or is he simply too uncomfortable to deal with human things such as speech? 

“Well then,” Stiles has decided that Derek has agreed. “Unless you say no in the next five counts, I will start. I will find the oil with the least scent. I know how that bothers you.” 

Still there is no verbal response from the wolf. He merely leans forward a little more, giving Stiles room to work. Stiles likes to think that he can work magic like this, even though he does not possess a useful skill like magic. Not that he would wish to have magic - the skill is too dangerous to flaunt and he would probably be treated much like his wolf is if people were to find out about his non-existent abilities. That simply would not do. 

His hands are on Derek’s shoulders. Stiles counts five heartbeats without a protest before he dares to move, gently running his hands over the curve of Derek’s strong shoulders. The muscles connecting shoulder and arm to his back are all knotted up - Stiles cannot imagine the kind of pain Derek has been in. And yet he has refused to ask for help. 

“Please tell me if I do this wrong,” Stiles is not quite as certain as he wants to be. “If I am needlessly hurting you, you must stop me. I wish to make you feel better.” 

It is too kind a feeling for his wolf to reciprocate. Derek rarely shows a semblance of kindness, instead treating Stiles like an errant child he happens to be stuck with. Someone that he does not actually wish to spend any time with - someone he wishes to leave behind. 

Stiles is too stubborn to be left behind, and it probably infuriates Derek. 

Derek growls then, as Stiles digs into the muscles below the blades of his shoulder. Clearly this is where all the pain is originating. However, instead of approaching this gently, Stiles must push through to unburden the closest thing he has to a friend. Derek really is his only true friend on this path, and Stiles wishes to do right by him. 

“So unhappy, you Sour Wolf,” Stiles teases, earning him another growl. “Soon your back will be all back to normal.” 

The muscles under his hand are strong, the skin surprisingly soft and incredibly warm. Stiles likes the feel of Derek under his hands, would happily continue this until he has touched every inch of Derek. He would gladly oil him up and rub him down. 

“Hmm,” Derek mutters, not sounding completely unhappy with Stiles’ progress. 

“So you do like these hands,” Stiles is far too pleased about that. “I could move on to some other areas. Do you need me to rub chamomile into your lovely bottom?” 

Oh, that is probably too much. Derek will growl at him and make it very clear to Stiles that he has done something that Derek will never agree with. Derek might even kick him out of the room and make him sleep in the stables with his steed. Camaro still is not very fond of Stiles, making it all the more of a punishment. 

However, Derek says nothing. He does not growl. The wolf merely moves to his knees, not giving Stiles any time to move away from him. So his oiled hands glide down Derek’s back, and Stiles only just manages to stop himself before they do touch that lovely bottom. 

It is a very lovely bottom, pale and pert and muscled and strong and very worth swooning over. Not that Stiles would swoon over the Sour Wolf. Of course he would not, that would be the height of foolishness indeed. And while Stiles might on occasion take to foolishness, he would not dare to let it reach those heights. 

“Stiles,” Derek growls. 

“Sorry, so sorry,” Stiles pulls his hands back - or tries to, at least. 

Something keeps him from doing so. A strong hand has grabbed both of his, to keep him from moving away from Derek’s glorious rear. 

“No chamomile,” Derek grunts. “Now get on with it.” 

The hand - Derek’s hand - pulls Stiles’ hands back towards Derek’s skin. Has he truly just been given permission to rub Derek’s bottom with oil? Stiles wishes to pinch himself, only both of his hands are occupied. He would be a fool to let go now. 

Stiles feels his cheeks heat as he kneads Derek’s warm, supple flesh. He is no longer a green boy, has made good use of his freedom by exploring both young men and young women, but none of his encounters have been like this. He had never been encouraged to be intimate with someone in such a way, to care for someone. Stiles had never been this unbearably close to someone who had no intention of going to bed with him, of bedding or being bedded. 

Or perhaps Derek does have intentions. Maybe Stiles will not be sleeping on the floor this time, and share the straw with Derek instead. Just to sleep, naturally, but it is still a great improvement over hurting his own back on the hard ground. Stiles does not have anyone to massage his aching muscles. 

For a heartbeat or two, Stiles slips into a fantasy in which Derek insists on returning the favor, making sure Stiles is loose and slippery and wet and so incredibly - 

“Stiles,” Derek growls. “Enough.” 

Unsure whether Derek means his thoughts or his hands, Stiles reluctantly moves away from the wolf’s perfect body. His fingers almost tingle with the remembrance of Derek’s skin, the oil warmed up in his hands. If Derek were not here, Stiles would grab himself with oiled hands until he spent himself. Stiles bites his lip, trying not to make a sound at the thought. 

“Of course, enough,” he babbles to cover up his embarrassment. “Whenever you are ready, I would also like to bathe. I am sure my scent is offensive to your strong nose by now.” 

It is a surprise that Derek does not acknowledge the statement, instead moving to rise. His naked form appears as if a nymph - no, this is not the time for similes and beautiful stories, this is a time for quiet contemplation as Stiles stares at the beautiful form he had been granted permission to touch. The rear view is incredible to look at, still Stiles wishes that Derek would turn around to show him the front as well. 

“Bathe,” the wolf orders as soon as he is standing on the uneven floor. “You stink.” 

Derek is not wrong, but he is not kind to point it out thusly. 

“Rude,” Stiles pouts, even though Derek is not looking in his direction. “All that after I have just helped you out of the kindness of my heart.” 

That earns him a look from Derek, one that tells Stiles exactly how much of his motives Derek has been able to smell. Stiles can be kind, but he is hardly ever selfless. Derek is the selfless one, throwing himself in the way of harm to save young children from monsters. He may accept coin for his work, but he would sooner make sure the helpless will not starve. It is an admirable quality, but not one that Stiles wishes to emulate. 

As he ponders this, Stiles rushes to take off his clothes before the water gets cold. His constitution is not as strong as Derek’s, and he is likely to catch a cold if he sits around in rapidly cooling water for too long. 

He does not look in Derek’s direction until he is safely in the water, any and all responses at least hidden from view. Though he is sure that Derek will scent it regardless. 

* * *

Stiles is worried when Derek takes the job from the Brotherhood of Druids. Sorcerers have never been kind to wolves, least of all to Derek. The man Stiles believes is called Deaton openly scoffed at the both of them and called Derek a disappointment to his species. 

Derek has grown more forlorn since, more withdrawn. He speaks even less now, and Stiles had previously considered that to be impossible. 

“I have never heard of a Darach before,” Stiles tries to get Derek to talk to him, even as they are walking towards their impending doom. “Deaton - was that his name, Deaton? He is very mysterious, and while he talks much more than you do, he says very little of substance. Are all Druids like that? Have you known many Druids?” 

Has Derek met this particular Druid before? 

While many people have considered Derek to be a disappointment to humanity at large, Derek has never considered it a personal affront before. Stiles is certainly aware that Derek internalizes any thoughtless comments about his looks and behavior and race, but Stiles has not seen him this upset since after Derek was forced to slaughter his own uncle. He was almost certain now that Derek has met the man named Deaton before. 

“Hmm,” Derek growls. 

Stiles thinks that might mean that Derek has not met many Druids before. This makes his response to this one even more telling. 

“Derek, Sour Wolf,” Stiles cannot let go of the unbearable hunger for knowledge. “What is a Darach, and why does the Druid not take care of it himself? Do Druids not have the sort of magic I have heard about? Because I have heard a Druid can lay waste to an entire town.” 

There are many tales of survivors, of the few people left standing after a Dark Druid performs such an act. Most survivors only last long enough to tell the tale - they have seen so much of the horrors of the world that it seems impossible for them to live on in a world that has not experienced this kind of torture. They die of a broken heart, or commit a violent act on their own bodies just to be rid of the demons. Not real demons, because those supposedly do not exist, not in the traditional sense. Stiles speaks of demons of the mind. 

He suspects that his Red Wolf already has far too many of those. 

“Druids have strong magic,” Derek finally truly speaks. “This is why a Darach is so dangerous.” 

So a Darach is related, is linked to a Druid somehow? Is a Darach made from a Druid, somehow? Is a Darach created by taking a Druid’s power?

Or perhaps the connection is a lot more simple than that. 

“So a Darach is another name for a Dark Druid?” Stiles waits for confirmation. “My books have never used the word, but I have read tales of Druids pushing themselves beyond the balance of nature. Of Druids trying to obtain more power than they are owed. Of a human sacrifice.” 

Details of the druidic rituals are not written down in any human books - it is far too dangerous for a mere human to possess any such knowledge. Even though Druids can be taught, and mere humans can become Druids if they apprentice with one for long enough. Still, the Druids like for the information about their kind to remain private.

What Stiles would not give to read all of their secret tales, to find out about the monsters only Druids have battled, to learn about the connection between Druids and wolves. To learn about Deaton and why Derek bows to him when he does not seem to deserve the worship. Stiles would never bend his head to a man like that. He does not wish to bend for any man. 

“Druids were once close friends of wolves, were they not?” Stiles is starting to put it all together. “Once upon a time, wolves ran in packs. To maintain the magical balance, a single Druid was bound to a wolf pack. Was Deaton bound to your pack?” 

Stiles is unsure of Derek’s age. There are tales that wolves live forever, because they can heal from most mortal wounds, but Stiles has also read descriptions of grey-haired wolves. Perhaps wolves age slower than humans, yet still age eventually. That would mean that it is possible, albeit not likely, that Derek was around in the era of packs. When wolves were a more prominent part of the world, before the hunters got themselves authorized to slaughter entire packs based on hearsay about wolves harming humans. Before the reputation of wolves turned into one based solely off feral violence. 

Before Derek lost everything, it seems. 

“Yes,” Derek gives him at least that much. 

“Before your eyes were red,” Stiles is just muttering to himself, even though he is fully aware that Derek’s hearing is sensitive enough for him to hear everything. “When your uncle was in charge of the pack? Was he always in charge? Perhaps he was of sound mind at the time, still I wonder if that man could ever be a kind and just leader. Or was that not important?” 

Truly, he wonders what qualities would make one a good leader of wolves. Stiles feels that a sound mind should be an important quality, even for the supposedly emotionless wolves. 

“The Alpha,” Derek growls. 

“Your leader is called the Alpha?” Stiles is delighted to find out more about wolves and their pack structure. “Well, I doubt that dear old Uncle Peter made a good Alpha. There was only death and venom behind his eyes when we met.” 

The Mad Wolf had been terrifying and cold, and even when The Red Wolf had been a stranger to Stiles, he had been much kinder. Even at Derek’s most terrifying, in those frightening first minutes, there had been more emotion in his eyes than Stiles had seen from most humans in Beacon Hills. Whoever had said that wolves did not feel emotions had been terribly wrong. Stiles believes that wolves have a different way of dealing with their emotions, of trying to maintain a grip on a world that despises them. 

He need only look at Derek to prove that wolves are not emotionless. 

“Peter was never my Alpha,” Derek is snarling now, brows disappearing and claws coming out. 

“Good,” Stiles does not say it to make Derek calm down. “He would never take care of his pack the way you need to be… appreciated. Cared for.” 

Loved. The way Derek needs to have love in his life - he faces so much hatred every single day, with only Stiles even remotely on his side. Stiles, however, is completely on the side of his Red Wolf, even when said wolf ignores him or growls and snarls at him. He will let Derek have his anger in private, when he is not allowed it in public. 

If he ever shows true anger in public, he will be struck down by hunters. Even now, only Stiles’ tales of the Red Wolf’s heroics keep Derek from being imprisoned. 

Or does that mean that Stiles thinks too highly of himself? 

“Silent,” Derek seemingly loses his patience with Stiles’ line of thought. 

Either they are approaching the lair of the Dark Druid, the Darach, or Derek is done with digging through painful memories of his past. Or perhaps it is both of these things. 

Stiles decides to follow orders just this once, to let Derek have his peace and quiet for a few more minutes before they either come face to face with a monstrous being, or nothing happens and Stiles gets impatient about being silent for too long. 

He would put money down on it being the latter option. 

“Derek, my love,” a beautiful pale, dark-haired woman steps into their line of sight. “I never thought I would see you again. It really is a pleasant surprise.” 

Now that is unexpected. 

* * *

The woman is named Jennifer, and she treats Stiles with an almost pleasant kind of contempt for his human status. Perhaps a pet is the best comparison. Jennifer treats Stiles as if he is an amusing pet that her love Derek has unfortunately been forced to associate with. 

“You look almost exactly the same as you did when I was forced to leave you last,” Jennifer muses, her pale hand stroking Derek’s cheek. 

Stiles is the one who wishes to growl now, wishes to slap the woman’s hand away and to force her away from Derek. Even though the Red Wolf does not protest, Stiles is certain that he does not particularly enjoy being in such close proximity with his supposed love. 

Or does he? 

It seems as if Derek has yet to protest against Jennifer’s declarations of love. He has grown silent again, but not in the way that Stiles usually experiences Derek’s taciturn nature. Usually Derek glowers, a look almost in complete contrast to the almost adoring look he sends Jennifer’s way whenever Stiles gets an opportunity to look at him. 

The opportunities are rare, seeing as Jennifer seems inclined to keep Stiles as far away from Derek as she can. She always positions herself in between them, as if trying to sever the connection of an invisible leash. She really does seem to consider Stiles a pet. 

“Are you still as strong?” Jennifer bats her eyelashes. 

Derek’s eyes flash red in return, burning into hers. 

“Stronger,” Jennifer is apparently delighted to discover that Derek is now an Alpha. 

Is the Alpha power still significant when Derek’s pack consists only of himself and a human storyteller who has forced himself into the pack without Derek’s explicit consent? Or does Derek need more wolves to build his power with? Is Stiles supposed to help him grow his pack? Can Derek grow his pack by making more wolves? Stiles does not think that he would make a particularly good wolf himself. He is no good in a fight. Even if he were to grow claws. 

“You can protect me even better now,” Jennifer is happy to fill the silence, while Derek is happy to gaze dreamily into her eyes. “You could take on any monster who would try to hurt me.” 

Stiles knows that he is right to worry, when all his Red Wolf does is nod dumbly at Jennifer’s every demand. He would agree with anything at this point - Derek has never been this suggestible before, and Stiles is certain that Jennifer has influenced him somehow. He has not sensed any magic, but somehow she has managed to overpower Derek before he truly noticed that she did anything to him. 

Honestly, Stiles would be impressed if it was not so completely despicable. 

“Are there many monsters trying to hurt you?” Stiles tries to keep his gaze blank, trying to look like a disciple of the gospel of the goddess Jennifer. “Why would anyone want to hurt you?” 

He is uncertain if there is any magic being worked on him, however it is probably best that he at least attempts to follow the unspoken order. Jennifer does not appreciate dissent, it seems. And seeing as Stiles is effectively harmless without Derek to defend him, he finds that it is best not to disturb those waters, so to say. 

After all, he does not wish to die until he’s seen Derek safe from the witch’s wiles. 

Oh, wouldn’t that be a lovely name for a tale? The Witch’s Wiles would be better than The Witch’s Wolf. He does not feel that the latter tale will have a very happy ending for the wolf’s human. Not to say that he belongs to his Sour Wolf in any particular way. 

“The life of any woman with power is often a dangerous one,” the lady Jennifer does not speak an untruth at this time. “This is why I am so pleased that my protector has returned.” 

That is a pain Stiles cannot imagine. One he does not feel qualified to discuss, and therefore he remains silent while he thinks of what he must do next. His loyal companion has essentially been struck mute by whatever spell has been cast on him, leaving him rather more like a loyal pup rather than the fierce warrior that the world sees him as. Unless the witch relays a direct order, the Red Wolf has been effectively rendered harmless. 

Stiles does not wish for the witch to give out orders - they will not end well. 

He supposes that he should be swayed by her power by now. It seems as if she naturally exudes it, and she expects much the same response from him as she has garnered from her wolf lover. Perhaps he could still speak, unlike the wolf, seeing as Stiles has not been repeatedly enchanted by the Darach. 

Oh, yes, it is a simple conclusion, yet Stiles strongly suspects it to be true. 

“He is a fine protector,” Stiles pretends he is swayed by her wiles. 

Complimenting his Red Wolf should be agreeable to his lover, should it not? And he does have plenty of kind words to say about Derek, now that the man is in no state to disagree with Stiles’ appreciation of his finer qualities. Usually any verbal appreciation earns him a grunt or a smack or anything else that might show the lack of appreciation Stiles is due for his fine words. The Red Wolf does not like anyone extolling his virtues. He is far more comfortable with hatred, disgust and derision. Except from his lady love. 

“Has he saved you too, little human?” Lady Jennifer deems him utterly harmless. “Did you go out on a stroll by the light of the full moon and find yourself threatened by an evil monster?” 

It is very tempting to tell her the true tale of the Mad Wolf, not the version he has made up for dramatics, to sound nice in a crowded pub. More tempting than it should be, which means that her magic does work on him eventually - he’d hoped he was immune. 

That means he is running out of time to save his wolf. Not because Derek belongs to him, but because he does not belong to the lady Jennifer either. Stiles would let him choose. 

“Have you not heard the tales?” Stiles tries to sound genuinely innocent. “The tales of the Red Wolf? His battle with the Mad Wolf, perchance? It is my particular favorite.” 

Stiles genuinely believes that he would be a far better keeper for the Red Wolf, if the man has to have a keeper at all. He believes that he will do right by his friend, that he will allow him warm baths and oils on his lovely bottom, and that he will give him the people’s acceptance instead of their outright dismissal. Stiles believes that he has better odds of allowing Derek to be happy than this Darach ever will, with her manipulations born of magic. 

“I have not,” Jennifer is intrigued, he can tell. 

“Once upon a time, there was a harmless little human,” Stiles makes it so very clear to her that this is his own tale. “He had heard tales of the great wolves. Of how special they were, how strong and how fearless and terrifying. He wished so desperately to meet one, just once, that he snuck out of the city’s walls in the middle of the night. But when he met the wolf, he was disappointed to find that he was everything the people had warned him about.” 

There is no power that Stiles has except the power of his words. But perhaps his words will let him weave a spell of his own, allow him to create a distraction that might give his wolf time to wake up his fogged mind. Perhaps if he can just sway the lady Jennifer a little, his wolf can finish the job. Because his wolf can do anything, if Stiles just has faith in him. 

“The wolf had gone mad,” Stiles continues, slowly shifting to position himself between Jennifer and Derek. “He was every bit as emotionless as the stories said. And he would kill the boy for finding him. The boy had made his peace with his maker when his savior showed up.” 

No sign of anyone there behind those beautiful eyes. Derek has yet to wake, and Stiles knows that he cannot keep telling the tale forever. The wooded grove is quiet and seemingly separate from the rest of creation - as if time stands completely still, or passes more slowly than it does elsewhere. It seems as if Derek is even blinking more slowly than he should be, as if his mind is perhaps altered somehow. It frightens him greatly. 

What is he to do without his trusty wolf savior? Except, of course, keep talking. 

“His eyes were blue,” Stiles had liked the blue just as well as he liked the red. “The boy had never seen eyes that blue before. They were beautiful, because they were filled with anger and despair and underneath all of that, hope. His savior still had hope, and he truly believed that he could save the boy from the monster that had captured him.” 

Strangely, this is when he thinks of something he has read in one of the many books he has perused to find more information about magic. He remembers reading about a kind of magic that is rooted in belief. According to the heavy tome, a person trying to practice that kind of magic did not need to possess any kind of magical ability - all that was required for the most trivial of magics was belief. To Stiles, it seems almost too easy. 

“And he did,” Stiles looks at Derek while he says that, because it would be impossible for him to look away at a time like this. “The boy owed the wolf his life, because he killed the monster, the warped Mad Wolf. He could have abandoned the boy to his fate, but he was far too noble.” 

It is easy because Stiles has a way with words, and the kind of belief in Derek and what he can accomplish that could probably leave him with more power than he needs to reign victorious over the suspicious sorceress. Now all he needs to assess is exactly the right words to use to work some magic of his own. Words matter in magic. 

“He was not kind to the boy after,” Stiles remembers that almost fondly now. “The wolf tried to scare him away and make him believe that he too was a monster. The boy refused to believe it. In truth, the boy believed much the opposite. He truly believed that the wolf could overcome any danger, fight any evil monster and magic to save the innocents he found in his path. He believed in the wolf so much that he shared it with others, all over the Californias. Soon, the people started to believe in the wolf as well. However, no one believes in him as much as the boy.” 

Time goes back to its normal speed all of a sudden, surprising not only Jennifer, but also Stiles and his wolf. Still, it is Derek who acts first, roaring loudly as he leaps in Jennifer’s direction, claws extended faster than Stiles can blink. It is a marvelous sight, even as Jennifer takes the opportunity to dodge the blow and grabs at Stiles with cold hands. 

“Halt,” Jennifer orders Derek, and this time he refuses to listen. “How did you do that, boy? That spell cannot be broken by a mere human. You have no powers.” 

The sorceress is not wrong: Stiles does not have any magical powers, and there is nothing so special about him. Yet he has managed to break a spell by sheer force of will, by being far too fond of a wolf who sees him as naught but a nuisance. It astonishes him possibly even more than it does the witch herself, but he is happy to pretend he was aware it would work for him. 

“I do not,” Stiles tells her, because he is not in the habit of lying anymore. “I am just a mere human who believes that his wolf can save him.” 

Glancing at his wolf seems like an awful idea, so instead he focuses on the belief he holds safely inside his clumsy body. Because if his belief can break a Darach’s spell, then perhaps it will also be able to help him defeat her. Or at least, to distract her long enough for his wolf to land a lethal blow. Stiles knows he would never be a danger himself. 

“How foolish,” the sorceress laughs at him. 

She flings Derek further away from them both with a flick of a pale finger, and Stiles still believes in him. It takes precious time for him to start moving again, and Stiles continues to believe. When he does get up, it is as if he is moving through honey, thick and viscous - and Stiles refuses to stop believing in his wolf. 

“Perhaps you might make a nice sacrifice,” Jennifer assesses him. 

“I am no longer pure,” Stiles is very aware that he would make a poor sacrifice because of it. “It seems that might complicate the matter somewhat.” 

Infuriating the witch threatening to take his life is perhaps not a very wise decision. However, Stiles knows that he has rarely been called wise, and the sorceress merely laughs at him rather than killing him outright. She still sees no reason to fear him. 

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice is slowed, and weird, but Stiles understands him regardless. 

It is easy to read Derek without being granted words from him. It has been easy for Stiles for a while now, and yet his wolf’s lover struggles so with understanding what he means. By the time she seems to know what they mean to do, Stiles has already pulled at the tree roots and branches growing all around him. He has asked them so very nicely to hold the monster that is keeping them stifled, and tells them that he believes that they can do it. 

He is right, and they do. Until Jennifer blanches briefly and suddenly looks like more of a monster than Stiles has ever seen up close. She tears herself away from the roots and branches with surprising ease, and Stiles has trouble believing what he is seeing. 

Her face is… horrifying and inhuman. 

Stiles is terrified, but Derek is moving even slower now, which means that Stiles is the only one who can stop this monster. It is a lot of pressure, especially when the sorceress-monster moves to eliminate Derek before he can reach her. That is something Stiles cannot allow. 

When the witch reaches for Stiles as well his friends, the roots and branches, rise up without another thought. Stiles still believes that they can help him save Derek, and make it so that the Darach will never hurt him or anyone else again. He believes in his friends, and he believes in his wolf, and for a moment he even believes in himself. 

Until his friends snap the Darach’s neck and everything seems to stop. Everything but Derek, who is finally back to moving at his normal speed. When he reaches the Darach, he slashes her throat with his claws, and the roots and branches disappear back into the ground. Stiles falls to the ground with them, suddenly tired enough to fall asleep on the forest floor. 

He is finding it difficult to understand just what had happened. 

“Magic?” Derek asks. 

“It is merely a trick,” Stiles attempts to explain. “I recalled reading of the kind of magic that required a strong belief in a person, or even in oneself. Seeing as I believe that you are the hero my tales make you out to be, it seemed pertinent to at least try.” 

When he next attempts to move, his legs have lost their strength completely. His wolf catches him in those strong arms and sniffs at Stiles, trying to locate the location of the problem. Or perhaps he is trying to catch the scent of something else. Stiles would not know, as Derek rarely talks to him about the abilities that wolves have. Unless there are untruths in his tales. If that is the case, his wolf is the very first being to criticize him. 

“Spark?” Derek is back to his one word sentences. 

This time, that sentence is rather incomprehensible. Though Stiles does not wish to annoy Derek any further by asking for an explanation. 

“I am aware you are capable of saying more than that,” Stiles feels like this is something that Derek should be aware of. “You were considerably more verbose when we first met.” 

Perhaps the situation with Jennifer has discombobulated him. Seeing as the woman had been his lover at some point, Stiles feels that is a sensible explanation. While her death is on Stiles’ shoulders, Derek still had to slice her throat to make sure that it was done. 

Had he loved her once? Did he love her still? Why was Stiles so concerned about that? 

“I like it when you talk,” his wolf is truly a ridiculous creature. 

“I knew there had to be something wrong with you,” Stiles shook his head ever so fondly. 

Unless he is sharing a tale with a captive audience, people would rather that Stiles not say a word. They do not understand that he is always sharing a tale, even though it is on occasion merely a tale that his errant thoughts have made him share with the world. 

Derek is different. He always is, but he is in this respect as well. 

“It seems we are even, perhaps,” Stiles ponders. “I vanquished your foe this time, and you vanquished the Mad Wolf for me. Though you did not do that just for me, did you?” 

That would simply be ridiculous. Derek is a noble man who slayed his own uncle because the man was a danger to the entire town of Beacon Hills, and to the surrounding lamps. Sure, the imminent threat was him taking Stiles’ life, but that did not mean that Derek murdered his one remaining family member just for him. Stiles would not wish that to be the case, as that it a lot of pressure to carry on his still trembling shoulders. 

Still, he likes to think that Derek performs some rituals just for him. 

“Hmm,” Derek seems to rather vehemently disagree with that. 

Does he not think that they are even? He would be right, but Stiles wishes to lighten the mood just as he wishes for the wolf to acknowledge that Stiles is the reason they are yet living. Mostly he just hopes that Derek will talk to him again, just as he continues to be a pillar of strength to Stiles’ extremely unsteady legs. 

“Present me your arguments, then,” Stiles knows he holds the better cards in any verbal battle of wits. “I did just save your life, Sour Wolf. I think you can grant me a few words.” 

Those strong arms are still wrapped around Stiles’ lanky body, and Stiles would happily pretend he would never be able to walk again if his wolf stays this close. As he waits for his wolf to find the right words to win this battle, Derek settles his hands on Stiles’ waist. 

“I hope you’re paying attention,” Derek says five whole words. 

Stiles can feel himself smiling, but his breath catches in his throat as Derek moves even closer to him. He is just about to open his mouth for a quick quip when Derek presses a quick kiss to his open mouth, and then another, when he feels how startled Stiles is by the gesture. There is a third kiss that Stiles finally manages to return before he has to draw back. 

This has been incredibly unexpected. 

“Yes,” Stiles manages to make himself speak again. “That is certainly a very firm… An argument of the highest level. I suppose you could be interested in repeating it, and doing so often?” 

He is exhausted and out of breath, yet he is sure that he has won this battle. 

* * *

“The Red Wolf had finally slain the evil sorceress,” Stiles draws the tale towards its natural conclusion. “The mysterious mage had disappeared, back under the ground with his branches and roots, waiting for the earth to be restored to its previous glory. It made the Wolf sad to see him go, but he understood that this was not the last time he would see the mage.” 

The children stare at him, eyes wide and completely captivated by a tale that is greatly dissimilar to the actual events of that day. Stiles does not like telling the truth this time, as he feels that whatever fluke allowed him to save Derek had best remain a secret. 

“The angry Druid was forced to forgive the Wolf,” Stiles likes this part more. “The Wolf had managed to do what no one else could. He saved the town and the woods. There would be no more innocents hurt in the forest, not with the witch defeated and the mage there to protect it.” 

A fair-haired girl sighs dreamily, and Stiles knows that she will come back the next day with another copper piece, wanting to hear another tale of the wolf and his mage. It seems it is a good thing that Stiles has gathered many tales about these two by now. He has lived most of them himself, with some embellishments here and there. 

He watches the children go back to their parents, and smiles happily at the extra copper pieces finding their way into his old hat. There will be another bath in his future, and perhaps some nice chamomile oil to rub into a particularly lovely bottom. 

“Did they live happily ever after?” An older girl sits down across from him and distracts him. 

She looks far too serious, her dark hair pulled back and a frown on her face that somehow reminds him of his wolf. Her clothing is dark and her countenance is ever darker. It seems odd for a young lady like her to ask for happy endings. 

“They?” Stiles feigns innocence. 

“The wolf and his mage,” the girl cuts through any niceties. 

Is she on her own? Stiles sees no family, no one to support a young girl who has barely reached adulthood. He wonders if she would be willing to travel with a grumpy wolf and his humble teller of tales. Perhaps she will meet the mage eventually. If she chooses to stay. 

“The story is not over yet, milady,” Stiles grins far too smugly. “I could tell you more of the tales of the Red Wolf if you would like. Only a copper a tale.” 

The young woman growls at him then, and Stiles watches her eyes turn gold briefly. 

“Perhaps you have earned a family discount,” he says, and smiles. 

Stiles cannot wait to share this tale. He thinks there will be family members long thought lost, and heartfelt apologies during a beautiful reunion, and perhaps even some improvement to the reputation of wolfkind. 

How marvelous. A touch of destiny. 


End file.
